


Sibling Rivalry

by em_gnat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied Castration, Traumatic Injury, welcome to dathomir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gnat/pseuds/em_gnat
Summary: Viscus's tale.





	Sibling Rivalry

**“Next!”**

The sparring-master’s command rang out in the still air. “Viscus! Reave! Choose your weapons!”

Together, the brothers strode from the line to face one another: two young zabrak men in the prime of their fitness, standing on the training field. Their shadows slashed across the stones, menacing in the slanting afternoon light. Reave clutched a short-handled scythe. The other youth held a spiked club.

That youth was brother Viscus: bare-chested and ready to fight. The icy wind pulled the breath from his lips in a long, snaking plume.

The moment stretched on like his breath, uncoiling across the sky. He perceived the twitch of his brother’s knuckles; noted the way Reave shifted his weight onto his back foot. Viscus knew all of his brother’s tells. They’d sparred each other many times, in many places up and down the mountainside, but never like this.

_“Begin!”_

The bark of command startled Vicus into motion. He roared in challenge, and Reave bellowed back. They flew into battle, their weapons clashing in a shower of sparks.

They dove and parried, swinging at one another in a frenzy. The only sound was their strained breathing and the clang of metal on metal. Their shadows ranged across the field, driving together then leaping apart in a violent dance.

They seemed as evenly matched as always, and the sparring-master saw with some regret that this bout would once again result in a draw.

But then, unexpectedly--

Reave seemed to flag, and as his brother tired, Viscus felt a surge of unknown strength. He slammed the spike club viciously against his brother’s scythe, battering him down onto one knee. Victory prickled his flesh, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end.

Then a flash of sunlight glinting off the scythe’s cruel edge dazzled his vision.

Momentarily blinded, Viscus stumbled back, and that was when Reave bashed the club out of his grip in one sure motion.

It spun far out of reach.

Viscus, weaponless, took a step back and held up his hands in surrender.

He was defeated.

And that is when his brother struck the cruelest blow.

The pain cut through him, and the howl of agony that filled the air did not sound like his own voice. He toppled, curling into Reave’s shadow, hacking and gagging in pain. His hands, clutching at his injury, were wet and hot with blood.

Dazed, he looked up, far up, into the shadow where his brother’s face should be.

 _The glint of a smile_ \--teeth as sharp as a blades.

_Then darkness._

In that dark place, tinged with the red pain of his would, he heard men talking over him, their voices so low he could feel it in his chest. He knew he lay on a cot. The cloth scratched his back and arms. A pole dug into his back. He opened his eyes, but there was nothing but grey shadow. Shadow, and white light.

“I’ve  done what I can but...A grisly wound. He’s ruined.”

“That’s it then? He’s no good for breeding stock now?”

“No. He’ll never make the Selection as he is.”

They were talking about him. _Him._

“No,” he tried to say, but it didn’t sound like a word, only the noise of a dying animal.

One of the grey man-shapes leaned into his field of vision, devouring the light, and pressed a vial against his lips. The pain dulled. His thoughts dulled.

_Ruined._

No good.

_Why, why, why?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **The patient sat** on the steps of the infirmary, watching a group of brothers run laps in the square below. The sound of their playful jeering filled the air, just as good as birdsong. For the first time in a four-of-days, Viscus’s head was clear.

But _oh_ \- how he longed for the grey darkness of the healer’s pain-numbing elixir; anything to take him away from Brother Ricus’s words.

“I did all I could for you,” the healer was saying. “But there’s no fixing some things. The wounds are stitched clean, though. They should heal nicely….”

The mountain air stung Viscus’s eyes.

“Then it’s true. I’ll never be up for the Selection.”

“Keep limber and the scars shouldn’t slow you down for more than a few months.”

“But there’s no reason to keep on training!” Viscus clenched his fists tightly, _so tightly! “_ I will be useless like this!”

His voice broke. He dropped his head forward, refusing to allow Brother Rictus to see the emotions that withered his face.

He felt the old man’s eyes on his back and was filled with shame.

The healer grumbled as he lowered himself onto the step beside young Viscus. Below, the youngest brothers, only half their adult height, pushed and shoved one another. It might have been a game at first, but then one boy pushed too hard and a pair toppled over, swinging their fists as they rolled on the ground.

“There are other ways to serve.” Brother Rictus said at last.

“Brother,” Viscus began, his tone cautious. “Did Reave come by while I was sleeping?”.

“No.”

Abruptly, Viscus lifted his head, dragging in a sharp breath as he blinked the gleam from his eyes.  

Brother Rictus laid a hand on Viscus’s shoulder. The gentle weight of his weathered palm was unexpectedly kind. Very quietly he murmured, “Speak to Brother Sunder.”

He strained back up onto his feet and shuffled into the infirmary hut, leaving Viscus alone with his pain. It wasn’t the ache of torn flesh mending, but the ache of a riven spirit, and Brother Rictus knew no balm for that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **In the night,** swaddled in a roughspun cloak, young Viscus limped into the shrine.

The only sounds were of shuffling footsteps, and the crackle of the shrine light as Viscus’s shadow appeared in the doorway. In the narrow alcove, illuminated by a single ever-burning brazier, two crudely carved statues stood side by side. One was a woman with carved feathered wings. The other was a man, mouth gaping opened to reveal long fangs.  

Resting his wooden crutch against the doorframe, Viscus lurched toward them unaided. With great effort, he folded his legs under him and sank to the floor.

The little shrine echoed with the heart pounding fever of his anger, and for a terrible moment, Viscus felt all his rage boil to the back of his throat, threatening to explode outward in a howl that would wake the village. He refused to cry out like he’d done on the sparring field. But the pain is in him, raw and real at the scything blade.

He recalled his brother’s _fanged smile._

Viscus reached forward, and his hand grasped the foot of the nearest statue: the bare, chiseled toes of the Winged Goddess.

It was as if his chest had been split. All the wind and ice of the mountain was howling through the bars of his ribs.

Slowly, he raised his head, looking up into the oval of the goddess’s unmoved face. His features crumpled in on themselves, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot as blood. Leaning down, he rested his forehead against the foot of the goddess and finally allowed himself to weep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Brother Sunder, sparring-master,** looked out over the Nightbrother village as the first notes of dawn scattered over the slate-tiled roofs.

“Not everyone can be Selected,” Brother Sunder said. In the pink morning light, Viscus could hardly see the leathery creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Those that are have a place of honor, that’s true. But here, we do the work of continuing the old way. I train up our fighters, and with each one selected, I give a gift of my own hard work to the Sisters. My devotion is stamped upon every single one of them, like a maker’s mark on a blade.”

Brother Sunder crossed his arms proudly over his chest. “It is stamped on _you_.”

“But how will I be of use?” Viscus asked.

Brother Sunder gave a short, hard sigh. “You are a skilled fighter, Viscus,” he said. “It would be a pity to let all your training go to waste. And I cannot keep training our warriors forever. There must be someone to carry on the work.”

Viscus followed the sparring-master’s gaze out over the village. Already, there were groups of nightbrothers out stretching their bodies in the brisk air.

“Do you ken what I’m asking you?”

“I do, Brother, but…”

The thought had never crossed his mind. It had never been an option. A young nightbrother’s goal was to be _the strongest_ , the _most skilled_ , the fiercest, so that he would be Selected. So the ritual went that a Nightsister would ride into the village, and she would test the mettle of all the young men of a certain age. Only the finest specimen would go with her. The selected would venture with her to that grand place beyond the borderland where there were no men. He would walk among the nightsisters there, and whatever else happened on this frozen mountain, beneath the vast sky, was none of his concern.

He looked a Brother Sunder incredulously, all at once.

“But how do you go on knowing that you will never walk beside them?” There was no keeping the note of accusation from his voice.

He didn’t expect Brother Sunder to laugh.

“Oh, I _do_ walk beside them. I walk beside every Sister who comes here for her Selection. As we go through each trial, I stand beside her and she speaks only to _me_.”

Viscus bowed his head.

“I suppose you think I was not good enough to be Selected? That I was left here to train you all for the trials but was found wanting?”

“No, brother.”

“No, indeed.” Brother Sunder laughed again. “Think on what I’ve said.”

“I don’t need to think on it,” Viscus said. The sparring-master turned his head sharply, and looked Viscus directly in the eyes. Viscus glared back, resolve hardening his features.

“ _I will do it._ ”

“Good. Very good.” Brother Sunder nodded. “You will need to train yourself back up; return to your ferocity, your dexterity, all that you had before. No, you must be better than that. We will begin when you are limber enough to but your crutch aside.”

Dismissed, Viscus turned dutifully to leave the sparring-master in peace, but for a moment his head was filled with thoughts of a young boy who helped him up when he fell, who had fought beside him in play-yard skirmishes. They had been inseparable, always challenging one another to be faster, fiercer. Theirs was a perfect partnership. At least, he had thought so. When had that changed? When had Reave grown fangs?

Viscus stopped on the threshold and glanced back, leaning heavily on his crutch.

A question still lingered in his thoughts.

“Why did you match me against Reave?”

The sparring-master wrinkled his tattooed brow, favoring the sunrise with a long, appraising look.

“Ever since you two were boys, the pair of you were evenly matched,” he said at last. “Neither one of you could best the other. I meant to put an end to it.” Then, he shrugged. “It seems Reave put an end to it instead.”

“Yes,” Viscus murmured.

 _But it is_ I _who will put an end to this rivalry, my brother,_ Viscus whispered into the darkness of his heart. _Once and for all._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Viscus returned to training**. Alone on the infirmary steps, he went go through the motions of stretching and lunging. His left leg trembled badly as he leaned into the pose, the muscles that ran up his inner thigh shuddering until his leg gave out. Again and again, he would lunge full out, all his weight on one leg while the other stretched far back, and hold the pose until he toppled down and rapped his horns upon the stairs.

Though Brother Rictus would sometimes stand at his door and watch, he never reprimanded nor did he offer a word of encouragement.

Each time his legs failed him, Viscus would set his jaw and begin again. Days stretched on into weeks. The moon passed through it’s phases. His sweat soaked into the stones.

Occasionally, a brother would stop and watch him from the bottom of the steps, but their faces were always too far away to read. Was it pity they wore? Disgust? Disappointment? Or something else?

 _Let them look._ Viscus dared them to do it. He was unmade before their eyes. Now they would see him reshaped again.

He trained and trained, his limbs strengthening, his fluidity returning. Lunges became leaps and somersaults, and in time, he was vaulting up and down the infirmary steps with a grace that surpassed anything he’d done before. Soon, Brother Sunder joined Brother Rictus, watching silently until the day he finally snatched up Viscus’s crutch and hurled it at him like a spear.

Viscus whirled, leapt to pluck it from the air, and landing, shattered it over his knee.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **A long, narrow shadow** crawled across the stones, darting over the horn-crowned heads of a dozen nightbrothers. They stood in rigid rows, fists clenched at their sides, and raised their gazes to where Viscus stood.

Arms folded behind his back, he watched them from atop the sparring-master’s stone dias. His pale green eyes studied the crowd, appraising, searching...until he saw that familiar face.

He clapped his hands over his head.

“The Trial of Strength!” Viscus called. “All of you, select your weapons!”

The nightbrothers darted questing glances at once another, but Viscus’s voice held that same note of authority that Brother Sunder’s always had.

Obediently, the young men moved. Their hands reached for weapons--

“Not you, Brother Reave.”

Reave froze in place. He turned and looked up, far up, to where Viscus towered above him: an imposing figure stamped against the red sky.

“You have proven yourself a skilled fighter with blades, Reave, and such a fighter requires a challenge worthy of his skill.” The cold wind howled over the mountain, crackling across cloth and bare skin. It sounded like the moan of a man in agony. “This is your trial, Brother Reave. Show us all your great strength.”

Reave, weaponless, looked around at his armed brothers. They circled him in a spiny ring of gleaming metal.

From his place of power, Viscus’s eyes glowed bright in his impassive face.

_“Begin!”_

**Author's Note:**

> What's the deal with Brother Viscus? Here's my answer.


End file.
